


the same answer

by curtailed



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-29 19:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtailed/pseuds/curtailed
Summary: The messes of unrequited love.





	the same answer

It's past two when you hear the three knocks: light, soft, and spaced enough that it jolts you awake from the couch. You stare up at the ceiling for a moment, catching your breath, slowly returning to consciousness.

Still, you take some precaution. You peek through the peephole, the hallway outside dimly illuminated, but you would recognize the pointy shades and mess of blonde-white hair from anywhere in the world. Dirk is adamant on using your front door as support. 

"Dirk," you say softly. "What are you doing?"

He lightly bounces his forehead off of the wood, the movement sluggish. "Just want to talk a bit, Rolal."

You wince slightly at the nickname, but you open the door.

Immediately you're assaulted with a smell of stale wine and heartbreak -- heartbreak, you realize as he tumbles clumsily into your arms, because Dirk only drinks when someone's stepped on his fragile little emotion center and stomped it into microscopic shards. He's way taller than you and heavier, all tight muscle and toned limbs, but in your arms he feels almost soft. Like a doll. Or one of those plush smuppets he keeps pestering you to buy.

You kick close the door and lead him to your couch, plucking off his shades.

He hits it like a fucking rock -- he sinks right into the cushions, into the patterned quilts Jane gave you last year and the sewn pillow Jake made himself and the bright orange plushie from Dirk (not smuppet) that you hope he won't notice how well-caressed it was, considering you sometimes squeeze it in your arms and pretend it was the man himself, and you could hold him like that. 

He doesn't notice because he's stone-cold drunk.

He's snoring when you drape Jane's quilt over him. In an act of irony -- strong, blazing irony, you might add -- you tuck Jake's pillow under his head, trying not to sink your fingers into the mass of hair. You wonder if it's as soft as it looks. It would be spun, silken white-gold in your hands, and you would tousle it for hours and never let go.

Ugh. You're such a creep.

Because you're still exhausted and sleep's already tugging at you, insistently blinking black spots in your vision, you curl up at the other end of the couch and listen to his breathing. It's a slow, shaky rhythm that pushes through his nostrils and out of his mouth, so unsteady and vulnerable, and it describes him _perfectly._ His face is stained with recently-dried tears, his eyes swollen. He's been crying.

You glare at Jake's pillow for a moment.

Then you let your eyelids sink, relishing the burst of comfort erupting from your head and all the way down to your toes, submerging into a warm, dark bath. It's bottomless and the only thing keeping you grounded is his breathing. He's giving you life through sound. Deep within your thoughts, some part of you aches _so much_ for him -- to press your mouth against his, to cradle him and for him to cradle you, and the emotions come crashing back like a wave.

How the hell are you supposed to sleep like this?

-

It's not even sunrise yet when he wakes.

You fell in and out of sleeping, unpleasant ideas crawling through your head, and your mouth feels like sandpaper. You're freezing. Your skin's covered in goosebumps and you clutch at yourself, trying to suppress your shivers.

He wakes slowly, sleepily, shifting around in the quilt.

What zaps him to ground zero is his eyes landing on the plushie -- it's in your lap. 

You have no idea how it got there.

"Roxy?" he whispers, his voice hoarse.

"Hey," you say.

His eyes flicker around the room. It's still dark outside -- only the faintest gold splashing across the horizon -- but his gaze picks out the shapes and silhouettes scattered across the carpet, the coffee table and the broken vase and a wizard figurine propped up against said vase. You suddenly feel self-conscious. He finishes analyzing the room, tugging his stare back to you.

"Wow, I must have been really drunk."

His eyes fall on a discarded shirt across the armchair. You mentally facepalm yourself for not removing it sooner -- it's a silken black shirt, too pretentious to be yours. 

"Whose shirt is that?"

"Some guy." You shrug nonchalantly. Your tendency of one-night stands had mysteriously picked up ever since Dirk confessed to you about how he felt about Jake, and it's one of the few things that actively riles him up. He actually _cracks_ his facade when he sees their remnants scattered around the room.

"What's his name?" Something dark twists his face; without those stupid triangular lenses, his expressions bleed out in pure, undiluted starkness. He can't hide how his orange eyes narrow or how his mouth flattens into a tight line, or how he subtly tenses up, as if readying for a fight. He's an open book without his glasses.

He always reacts like this and you can't pinpoint why.

"You wouldn't know him." You sink back into the couch cushions.

"Try me."

"FIne. You heard of Ampora? The older one?"

Dirk's jaw could probably hit the floor. "You -- you hooked up with _Ampora._ "

"Don't look at me like that. He was good." You can't hide the bitterness in your voice -- _at least he knows what I want, at least I knew what to do_ \-- and the thoughts rattle around your head like bells. He's staring at the shirt acidly like a personal vendetta.

"Sorry." He breaks out of his stupor, his voice softening. "I just -- I get a little protective, maybe? He's a complete douche."

"Chill, it's okay. It's cool. He left me his number too."

"Rolal, he once left _me_ his number. That's how desperate he was."

You sigh. You know where this is going, and how he'll be sucked into his vortex of depression and self-loathing and how he'll psychoanalyze himself and tear his brain into pieces. "Why don't you tell me what happened last night?"

"You can guess, could you?"

"Jake shot you down faster than humanly possible."

"Yeah." His hands fist in his pants, nails tugging into the fabric wildly. "I'm so stupid, I should've known. It happened in high school and it happened again, and I can't believe I fell for him just like I did -- _god,_ Roxy, what's wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with me?" His words peter out into a whisper.

 _Nothing,_ you wanted to say. _Nothing. You're perfect, in all your stupid flaws and stupid smiles and the way you pick people up even when you're ripping apart inside. There's nothing wrong with you at all._

Is this what Dirk felt like when he asked Jake? The urge to spill everything at once -- to fall into his arms -- _knowing_ he would never return what you felt? 

You were making the biggest mistake of your life.

You touched his face, drawing your thumb across his cheekbone. He inhales in a breath of surprise and you take your chance.

His mouth is as soft as you imagined. It's always been peppered with harsh, blunt words, carefully crafted to keep all the things inside from pouring out, but sometimes it's painfully easy to rip it apart. Softness. Just softness.

You realize saliva is drooling out of your mouth; your heartbeat quickens, your hands still holding his face -- treat him gently, like porcelain dolls. He tastes a little of alcohol but _more_ of him, this heady sweetness that reminds of you of warm honey.

He's not pushing you away, but

he's not kissing you back.

His mouth is still closed. His lips brush against yours, almost lovingly, but you know what you'll see in his eyes when you pull away. You're flushed and tiny breaths pound in your throat, but he's as calm and unruffled as he always is. 

Only his eyes show any change. They stare at you, and you know what he's going to say.

"Roxy?"

You can't look at him. Embarrassment, shame, _guilt_ rushes into your face, making your stomach twist violently. You want to puke on the carpet, onto the silken shirt, onto the stupid plushie he gave you that's still trapped in your lap.

"Roxy."

He doesn't reach for you. He knows you too well -- you'll just shy away and curl yourself into a ball, and surround yourself with wine and false laughs and never, ever letting yourself feel that way again. He's giving you space.

How considerate of him.

"How long?" You never heard his voice so kind before.

You owe him an answer. His heart's been splintered and _this is what heartbreak feels like_ , this awful pain that pinches at your chest until it's hard to breathe. 

"High school." you mutter.

"So all that time, when I was telling you about Jake..."

"Yup." 

He releases a breath, still staring wide-eyed at you. "Wow. Wow, okay. I -- "

"Did you know?" You almost fling the words at him. "Did you ever guess?"

"I mean -- you did spend a lot of time with me. And you joked about it. But I assumed...you know, you were always like that? Really open with everyone?"

"And you say you're stupid." A faint pounding reverberates in the back of your skull. "God, _god,_ Dirk, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. You don't deserve to put up with someone like me, and you deserve someone better than Jake. You deserve way more than all of this shit."

He moves closer to you. 

"What -- "

He kisses you.

It's dry and warm and you don't respond, because when he draws back there's sadness in his eyes. His face is contorted in anguish.

"I can't."

Of course you knew that. It's not just about sexuality, but it is, because he likes Jake and he likes people similar to him and you can't give him that assurance. It's not just gender, either; it's everything you're composed of that doesn't match up to him, from all your thoughts and habits to his mentality, and how both are shaped around your identity and he will never, _ever_ , be able to reciprocate no matter what you become, because at the end of the day he's Dirk and you're you, and he won't change anything about himself just for you, and you would never ask him of it.

"I love you," he says, and he strokes your hair.

Your laugh is wracked by a soft sob. "What do you even mean?"

"How you define love, then? What did you want from me if we were in a relationship?"

So much things. You try to put it concretely into words, wondering if he'll ever grasp it. "Sexual attraction. I wanted you to make out with me and have sex with me."

"I can't give you that. But if you didn't have those, would you still be in love with me?"

"Of course."

"What else?"

"I wanted to hold hands with you. I want to hug you in public, and for you to buy me flowers and I'll buy you things in return."

"But what differentiates that from friendship? We've hugged before and I gave you prom flowers. You've bought me the toolbox for my birthday."

"No, it's not that -- " Technically, he's describing it, but it's not something you check off a list. You flail around with your words. "It's different. It's what you feel toward Jake."

"I can't give you the same feelings I give Jake. You're two different people."

"You know what I mean," you spit out.

"I enjoy spending time with you. I'm dedicated to you. I'm jealous when other guys talk to you, because you're sharing that part of you to them that I can't give you, and -- " he shudders and buries his face in your hair. "I want to, Roxy. I wish I can love you the way you want me to. I want to make you that happy, because someone should love you that much."

"It's different," you whisper.

"I'll go to the end of the world for you," he says, cradling your head. "I would do almost anything for you. But I can't give you my -- you wouldn't want it. It's unfair to you."

Why did you even kiss him?

The moment he walked into your apartment, you already knew the things that leapt in your heart.

When your lips touched his you already knew his reaction.

Why did you even bother?

"Roxy?"

You've known since high school, and you still tried. You and Dirk are so similar sometimes.

"Rolal?"

You know exactly how he felt.

"Please don't -- " is he crying? Actually crying? Something wet glistens on his cheeks, and his hands are shaking on your head. "I swear, Roxy, I want to. I wish I could give you what you deserve, more than anything. I'd die before hurting you."

Why did you even try?

"God," he chokes. "God _damn._ "

It's the same answer Jake gave him, and he's giving it to you now -- even when's he brushing across your hair, caressing his face, placing soft, light pecks on your forehead. On your cheeks. On your nose.

Never on your lips. 

He can't give that to you,


End file.
